


Complimentary colours

by Enjoloras



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, M/M, Trans Character, Trans Enjolras, some mentions of violence and vaguely suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-20 06:20:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4776812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enjoloras/pseuds/Enjoloras
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short fic based on someone saying 'I want an exr fake dating canon era au with trans boy Enjolras', to which I said 'this is the 1800's. I can go you one better than fake dating.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Complimentary colours

**Author's Note:**

> The original post that inspired this can be found here; http://enjoloras.tumblr.com/post/128378794181/imagine-canoneratrans-guy-enjolras-parents-ask
> 
> The title was quickly made up because I just wanted to post this already, but the idea of colour is a running theme in it, so it makes a little sense, at least.
> 
> Another disclaimer; again, as with my main fic, I hate the 'boy trapped in a woman's body' trope applied to trans people. However this is the 1800's and there's little other way to word it.

It begins with a waistcoat. It is finely made, the colour of wine, and Enjolras thinks he looks rather dashing in it, though he would never confess to such vanity. When his mother holds it up before him, having discovered it beneath his bed, he feels his heart falter to a stop. He does not know how to explain it. He has no excuse, only the truth, and the truth would be his ruin. The words leave his lips before he can catch them. 'I am courting someone,' he says, and the lie is too easy. It begins with a waistcoat.

The excuse brings the threat of incredible scandal crashing into their lives; to his parents he is an only daughter, and to even court without their permission is unthinkable. His father is furious - he breaks several plates and screams until his throat is hoarse, calling Enjolras all manner of ungallant names. That a gentleman's garment should be found in Enjolras' bedroom suggests far more than innocent courting, and heaven forbid an illegitimate child be the fruit of Enjolras' insolence, he says. Enjolras barely resists the urge to laugh in his face, as nothing could be further from the truth. He is as untouched as the first snowfall of winter. His parents demand that Enjolras' lover make a wife of him. 'It is the least he can do,' his mother says.

He lies awake that same night wondering what to do. He thinks of Combeferre and Courfeyrac, both of whom know of his unusual situation. He could not ask it of them, he decides; he has already asked so much of them in asking for their secrecy. Each of his friends pass through his mind. Jean Prouvaire, an only son; his parents likely have plans for him already. Joly and Bossuet each have a mistress, a shared one, and he does not linger too long on Bahorel. His nature is too unruly; his parents would not believe him to be to Enjolras' liking. Feuilly is far too poor for his family to accept, and that friend of Courfeyrac's is besotted with some mystery coquette. He thinks then to the group's cynic, with paint on his hands and gin on his breath.

It is all together an undignified affair. When he calls upon Grantaire's lodgings he finds the man more sober than usual, not yet halfway through his first bottle, and seizes the rare opportunity with both hands. He invites himself in and is quick to disrobe before the artist, chin raised defiantly as he throws his shirt down to reveal the bindings across his chest. There is no need for tact or carefulness - he knows that Grantaire will not breathe a word of this, and if he were brave enough to dare his story could be waved away as the result of too much absinthe. It is part of the reason his mind settled on him for this favour. Grantaire's reaction is underwhelming. He takes a mouthful of wine from the bottle and says he has known people like Enjolras before. 'I am a man of the world, Enjolras,' he informs him, 'I knew a woman like you – that is to say, her situation was the opposite to yours.' Enjolras hides his fascination; he is not here to talk about other people. 'Why did you choose to tell me?'

Grantaire is offended by the proposition - or rather, by the offer of wealth as repayment. He slams his bottle on the table and looks at Enjolras with revulsion. He curls his lip and states he would have done it for free had he only asked. He is not a paid whore, he says. He makes to turn away, and Enjolras reaches out for him, frantic, lost. Grantaire recoils from his touch as though it burns his skin. 'I do not want your money.' he says again, and averts his gaze from Enjolras'. His shoulders slump, and all at once Enjolras can see him give up. He has no time to feel guilty for putting Grantaire in such a difficult position; he is desperate. 'Please,' he says. The plea makes Grantaire crumble.

They are wed three weeks later in a quiet ceremony. It is a cool morning, spring not yet ready to relent to the summer, and the hairs on Enjolras' arms prickle from the chill as he stands in his bedroom, naked save for a loose camisole. His mother combs his hair, humming a tune from his childhood, and it occurs to him that soon he will be free of her coddling and of the house that has become a prison. His wedding dress feels too heavy, all ornate lace and layers of tulle. It is too white and pure for what he desires to be. His mother settles glittering jewels around his neck, and Enjolras makes a vow to give them to the more needy when this farce is over and done with.

When he meets him at the altar Grantaire is dressed in a fine red tailcoat. His own dowry has paid for it, Enjolras knows. Grantaire has squandered what little wealth his father afforded to him on drink and dominoes. It is a beautiful shade of crimson, with wide points and long tails. Enjolras cannot help but envy it, the feeling only amplified by his own attire. Their vows are said hurriedly, with Grantaire looking everywhere but at him. Enjolras wonders if he hates him for this. When they are expected to kiss there is a moment of uncertainty before Grantaire cups his cheek with one hand and brings his lips to Enjolras'. It is far more tender than he had expected. Grantaire smells of oil paints and aniseed, not at all the sour reek of gin Enjolras had anticipated, and his mouth tastes sweet. When he pulls away, Enjolras is left with swollen lips and the look of a man who has had all the air stolen from his lungs.

Their wedding night is as unorthodox as their arrangement. The dinner and dance end just after midnight, and his mother escorts him to his bedroom. She helps him to remove his dress and leaves him there in nothing but the ivory shift he had been wearing beneath it, his bare shoulders and legs exposed to the cold. He sits down on the bed that is expected to be his marital bed, and runs his hands over the crisp white sheets. When Grantaire enters and begins to strip down to his underclothes he does not look at Enjolras. Enjolras wonders what Grantaire must think of him now. He has known him so long in his waistcoats and trousers, but without his bindings his body is visibly a woman's. The camisole does nothing to hide the curve of his hips and the slight swell of his chest. He wonders briefly if Grantaire would desire him, if he would want to touch him, to kiss him, to make love to him if Enjolras were willing, and Enjolras is not altogether sure of how the idea makes him feel. His mind drifts to the kiss, to the gentleness of Grantaire's lips. They say nothing to each other but a mumbled 'goodnight'. Enjolras blows out the candle and keeps to his side of the bed. They sleep with their backs to each other.

They find lodgings together in a pleasant part of Paris. It is close to the Musain, and far enough from Enjolras' family home that his parents are unlikely to spring unexpected visits on them. Enjolras' mother bids them farewell, kissing his cheeks and weeping as they ride off in their coach, belongings piled into a chest. Grantaire makes an extravagant show of carrying Enjolras over the threshold for the coach driver, who helps them with their trunk. Enjolras feigns indignation for the rest of the evening, though he is taken aback by the strength in Grantaire's arms, and cannot help but smile when he thinks about the overenthusiastic flourish with which he had swept him up. It is a perfect home for them. It has two bedrooms and room for a study, which Enjolras is excited to make use of. It is less opulent than his family home, to Enjolras' relief, but still more than Grantaire has had since moving to Paris from Auvergne. It works for them. A balance between modesty and luxury.

The first night in their home together they sit by the fire, sharing a bottle of the fine wine they received as a wedding present and watching the ivory dress as it burns to cinders in the hearth. Enjolras whispers that it feels like freedom. The wine has gone to his head, and he seems enraptured by the flames as they eat up his past. He rarely drinks, but the night is already so absurd he thinks there is no harm in taking it a step further. He dislikes the taste; it is too sharp and bitter upon his tongue, and he has seen how it can make beasts of good men. Grantaire says it is a pity it is not acceptable for men to wear dresses, or he might have claimed it for himself and spared it it's fate. Enjolras looks at him with interest, but nothing more is said on the matter. Grantaire sips his wine and makes a quiet toast to the future; their glasses clink too loudly in their large sitting room. Neither of them really know to what future they are toasting. They both have very different visions.

Days later Grantaire's red coat finds it's way onto shoulders too slender for it's fit. It hangs too loose on Enjolras, but the colour suits him like no other, and he turns in the mirror and pinches the fabric, imagining how it might look if it were made to his measurements. Grantaire says that scarlet should not compliment someone so well, lest it tempt fate to bloody him up. Enjolras continues to pull at the fabric in the mirror, fingertips curling at it with longing. It is soon made a gift to him, Grantaire offering to take it to the tailors to have it adjusted. 'A wedding present,' he jests, when Enjolras insists he cannot accept it. 'Your dowry paid for it.' Grantaire reminds him. Enjolras does not argue again.

When his mother calls for tea without an invitation, Enjolras is unprepared. She finds him dressed from head to tail in men's attire, sporting his new red coat and a poorly tied cravat. As she opens her mouth to demand explanation Grantaire swoops in with a pallet of paints balanced on one hand, and as though he had planned for such an occasion manoeuvres Enjolras over towards the bay window. 'The lighting is terrible here, my love', he says as though he has not noticed Enjolras' mother, 'Stand here, the sunlight turns your hair to gold. Midas himself would not do so excellent a job.' He turns to Madame Enjolras and lays on poetic about how Enjolras is posing for his latest art piece. 'It is a satire,' he says, 'At how many of the men in power are so useless, it ought to be their wives and mistresses that run the country!' Madame Enjolras professes she has never understood art, but she says nothing more on the matter. Enjolras disappears to change into the plain day dress he set aside for such visits. The three of them have their tea in silence. Enjolras' hands shake on the porcelain the whole time.

Courfeyrac finds their situation to be somewhat entertaining. He makes regular visits to them, and whilst they often talk of revolution, conversation sometimes turns to revelry rather than riots. One evening Grantaire brings them both cake, setting it down on the table for them, and Enjolras thanks him with a mindless kiss upon the cheek. When he leaves to go back to his paints, seemingly unaffected, Courfeyrac's eyebrows are raised so high that Enjolras fears they may never come down again. 'You have fallen into your roles too well!' he comments, but he is smiling even as he stuffs his mouth with cake. Before he leaves he embraces Enjolras tightly. 'It is good to see you in love, my friend', he says, and is gone before Enjolras has a chance to correct him. He wonders what gave Courfeyrac such an absurd idea. He is left standing in the doorway for a while, pondering the day as the night creeps in.

It is some weeks after this that Enjolras starts to worry he has taken his ruse too far. Since Courfeyrac's words much it feels has changed. His heart seems to swell when Grantaire speaks to him, and he considers consulting Combeferre. The warmth between them seems to have grown hotter, sizzling in the air when their skin brushes accidentally. He catches himself watching Grantaire from across the sitting room as he draws, dark hair falling into his eyes and dexterous fingers gliding charcoal across paper with incredible grace, and finds himself wondering what it would be like to be at the mercy of those fingers.

He does not know when the idea takes him but he acts before he can reflect on it enough to change his mind. In the end he does not know if it is the deep ache in his chest or the strange itch between his legs that drives him to it. One night he creeps down the hallway, looking like a ghost in his long white nightshirt, his heartbeat louder than his footsteps. The floor is cold against his bare feet, and he reaches Grantaire's bedroom on his tiptoes. He knocks once, and tries to hold his head high when he slips into the room, hair tumbling down pale shoulders. Grantaire is already sitting up in bed, and Enjolras wonders if he had been sleeping at all. Moonlight streams into the room through the shutters, spilling onto the bed. There is a question in Grantaire's eyes and Enjolras cannot bring himself to answer with words. There are none that will dare leave his lips. He sheds his nightshirt and stands there, letting his nakedness speak for him. Grantaire has wanted this too, it seems, for before Enjolras can make sense of what is happening they are together, kissing so furiously that their teeth clack and their lips sting. Soon Grantaire sheds his nightshirt too, and their bodies are pressed close beneath the sheets.

It does not hurt like his mother told him it would. Grantaire's hands are reverent against his body, his lips pressing prayers against inner thighs, and by the time it is over Enjolras can scarcely believe he resisted the urge for as long as he did. His whole body sings with pleasure, and it feels as though he has forgotten how to use his limbs. He says so, unabashed and breathless. Grantaire laughs, and the sound is like music. He presses his face against Enjolras' neck, fingers finding an anchoring point in golden hair as though he is fearful Enjolras will vanish from beneath him. He has no need to worry about that. Enjolras envelopes him in his arms and falls asleep to muttered declarations of love.

Things are different after that. Their closeness when Enjolras' mother visits is no longer staged. Enjolras joins him on the chaise and curls into his arms, allows himself the simple pleasure of loving and being loved in return. One of the bedrooms becomes a studio from which Grantaire can work; he takes to his painting more seriously, and Enjolras notices that more often than not it is a paintbrush in his hand and not a bottle. Courfeyrac and Combeferre mercifully do not comment. Enjolras is not sure he could stand to hear what they think of the situation.

Love is not enough to turn a lion into a housecat, or change a man's nature. Time passes and Enjolras does not come to bed many nights, instead lost to his books, writing, planning, striving to make a better world. He will help to build it, or else die on it's foundations. As the days drag on he stops affording himself the luxury of intimacy. He knows Grantaire has grown used to falling asleep alone. When he crawls into bed at night it feels cold, even with the warmth of his lover's body beside him. Enjolras is once again back to wondering if Grantaire hates him. The circumstances are different this time. The loss is far heavier. They fight more, and in turn, Grantaire drinks more. Enjolras chastises him. When their eyes meet in the too-large sitting room Grantaire's are needy and betrayed.

The whispers in the Musain grow louder with the weeks, and soon they are shouts, ear-splitting and thunderous. Paris is tense, holding it's breath, until one warm day in June the air smells of smoke and gunpowder. Flags are raised, red as blood, red as the jacket that now fits Enjolras too well. There are shots and cries, a young artillery man killed. Enjolras is sure he will wake from nightmares until he is old and grey. The people rise and the people win, but it is a victory bathed in blood, and there is little celebration in the streets. The new republic is born amid bodies.

Grantaire is too good to him, Enjolras thinks. When the dust has settled and there is no more use for his flintlock, Enjolras is lost at sea. He intended to die there he realises, and now he is like a child without his parents. Grantaire takes his hand, leads him along, helps him take his steps now that he is without a cause. The atrocities he committed in the name of liberty cloud his dreams, red as his coat, and he wakes crying and shaking, fingers curled to pull a trigger that does not exist. He thinks of the artillery man, no older than himself, and weeps openly. All of his fire is gone. He would have put a gun to his head he thinks, but Grantaire presses lips to his temple instead, holds him firm. He tells him that what he did was justified, though Enjolras knows Grantaire does not feel that way. He pulls him back down into their bed, quiets him with gentle kisses and soft words. Enjolras does not think he deserves Grantaire's forgiveness for his neglect. He falls asleep in his arms anyway.

The pain eases with time. His sleep comes easier to him, but he still wakes in the small hours with the din of gunfire echoing in his head. It is a struggle to adjust, and even more of a struggle to accept that he has no place in the new republic. It would be too much of a risk to put himself in the public eye. Sometimes Combeferre, still involved in politics, relays his ideas for him and Enjolras watches as they become a reality. He does not care that Combeferre receives credit for them. Recognition was never why he did this. His life is quieter than it has ever been, and longer than he'd imagined it would be. For the boy who expected to die on a barricade, it is time he does not know what to do with. He pens political articles under a pseudonym, and finds that that eases some of his frustrations. Grantaire assists in easing the rest.

Three years since the revolution creep by and they almost begin to resemble an ordinary couple. They sit together by the fire most evenings, Enjolras with a stack of books at his side and Grantaire with his fingers dusty from charcoal. Grantaire brings him sweet pastries and red tulips whenever the anniversary of their marriage comes around, and in return Enjolras makes a gift of fine new paintbrushes to him. Their friends make regular visits and do not inquire into the unusual living situation; it is not a rare thing for two bachelors to take up lodgings together, afterall. When his parents stop by they hound them about the lack of grandchildren, Grantaire sadly informs them that Enjolras is barren. They talk about other things, even politics. Monsieur Enjolras does not ask why his daughter flinches when he speaks about June 1832. He does not notice the way Enjolras' hands reach blindly for Grantaire, the way his cheeks lose their colour. When they leave, Enjolras breaks in Grantaire's arms. 'It is like being back there again,' he says.

It is 1840 when Enjolras finally hangs up the red coat for good. It is threadbare, and though he looks at it fondly as a wedding present he cannot ignore the smell of gunpowder that still clings to it even now. Running his fingers along the fabric feels like brushing against the dead. He cannot wear it. It makes him feel like an angel of death. Green becomes his colour. It is Grantaire's colour too. It is the contrast to red, but it settles onto Enjolras' body as though it was meant to. He is sure that it would have never looked half so good on him in 1832. Green becomes his colour, and like the first signs of spring after a hard winter, Enjolras feels as though there is hope once again. Grantaire teaches him to dance, and Enjolras accompanies him to fencing when he feels up to it. They sit up together most nights, debating politics as they once had against the backdrop of the Musain. Grantaire picks his battles on purpose, so that Enjolras may once again glow with revolutionary fervour. It helps. Grantaire gifts him a fine emerald waistcoat on the tenth year of their marriage. They settle into their lives comfortably, and Enjolras allows himself to believe he may be happy. It ends with a waistcoat.

 


End file.
